progress

after you were gone
grandmother
the urn came out
from the ugly incineration box
we floated your ashes
      in the desolate wind

and then we divided up
the curved banister
the kitchen stove,
and the parrot
restlessly strutting its perch

you had already died
they said: death
was a merciful relief

and then on the verandah
we sat; the spiderweb
like a tea strainer
for the stars,
we search for meaning
in your life.

is your fulfillment
in those you leave behind?
      are we doing "better"
than dadu and you -
your going away,
is this then part of progress?

i enter your room
the bed is barren,
the sheets austere and white.
a bird sings outside
smoke beyond the river

all is as it should be
yet
i feel unsheltered.

there is no one
to hold my hand
no one to ask - stay,
just a few more minutes...

i walk out
the stars are benign enough
but progress does not seem
that meaningful.